


The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Quiet Time

by Emma_Lynch



Series: Holmes_Hooperverse AU [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awesome Molly Hooper, F/M, Post Season 3, Surprise Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 03:17:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1329886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emma_Lynch/pseuds/Emma_Lynch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is curious. (Post season 3). Sherlock is back from the dead and has a shiny, new, in-house laboratory; John has a new baby and Molly Hooper has a (temporary) new address. An awful lot of "new-ness" - a strange and unsettling time for John. There is something strange about Mr. Holmes - something new, bizarre and - beautiful. Help John - he s looking for clues</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Quiet Time

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes, it`s just right there, in front of you, in plain sight... my first fanfiction-here we go!

                    

                                                                  “ Men do change, and change comes like a little wind

that ruffles the curtains at dawn, and it comes like

the stealthy perfume of wildflowers hidden in the grass.”

**John Steinbeck**

  

“The World is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes.”

**Sherlock Holmes, The Hound of the Baskervilles**

 

PROLOGUE:

Bright lights.

Muffled words – panic?

Fear?  Pain?

Pain.

Intermittent – a vice-like grabbing and squeezing; sweat pin-pricking across flaming cheeks; hair plastered - a mermaid entangled in sea-weed`s salty black tresses.

Great breaths drawn in – held in rictus agony; then released, like jagged, ripping gusts. Then again – air sucked in…holding… breathing…

 Surviving.

* * * *

 

** Chapter One: Skylab **

It is all Charles Augustus Magnussen`s fault. John so lays the blame, if blame is the right word. It wouldn`t have existed without him. Without C.A.M. (as the papers love to call him); there would still be heads in fridges and eyeballs in one`s tea. Not any more, since now, we have “Skylab”.

“Skylab?”

John can only stare and gaze at the beauty of the room. Glittering glassware stands in floor to ceiling cabinets; de-humidifiers to make mildew and contaminants a thing of the past; a complete set of volumetric flasks, beakers and petri dishes – easily £5,000 worth of glassware. Essential stuff, like pH meters and de-ionized water supply, alongside a beautifully shimmering magnetic stirrer and hot plate.

“Skylab. Sent from heaven.”

Sherlock Holmes` grey/blue (green?) eyes glitter as he languidly runs a long, pale finger across a stainless steel and granite workbench; glancing at the gleaming new refrigerator with sliding glass doors and a monolith of a freezer to store reagents, chemicals and samples at a perfect -2 degrees Celsius…playfully caressing the lid of the sizeable centrifuge en route.

“Er… are you CARESSING that centrifuge, Sherlock?” Mock horror, mingles with barely suppressed mirth.

“Molly constantly reminds me to keep my emotions in check.” remarks Sherlock, almost carelessly; smirk emerging. “But I MUST…emote! LOOK at this place. I LOVE it, John, love it!”

“Constantly emoting.” Adds Molly Hooper, indulgently (confidently?) looking up from a petri-dish/pipette combo.

John Watson, smiling. He likes Molly Hooper and he likes how she and Sherlock work so well in the lab together now. Less ordering around, more division of labour.

Just a minute though…

“Just a minute, Sherlock.” Playfully. “I thought you once said that the… chemistry of love, although inherently simple, was very destructive? Won`t an influx of…emoting…botch up a few experiments? I mean, you don`t want to get carried away.”

Sherlock raises his “that-damned-blog” eyebrow.

John Watson; smiling at his friend. Genuinely pleased for his good fortune. The ex “clients” of C.A.M. have been VERY generous in their reward. Very generous indeed.

Sherlock claps his hands together suddenly, like a gunshot, echoing across the hard, resonant surfaces, and spins around with a proud smile, facing John.

“Blimey, Sherlock, you`re a …bloody…” searching for the phrase… (sleep-deprivation) “…proud parent!”

Adding: “and I know what I`m talking about here!”

Dark brows draw suddenly beneath dark curls. Sudden puzzlement.

“Why John, what CAN you mean?”

Molly: “Sherlock, John is a new FATHER – to an ACTUAL baby – not just a shiny new laboratory.”

Sherlock shrugs, turns away and things resume their normal place in the universe.

 

Chapter Two: Memory Lane 

John Watson hasn`t been to Baker Street for over three weeks when Sherlock texts.

“Where is John Watson and why do you have his phone? SH.”

Truth be told, John is a wee bit miffed, communication being a two-way street and all. Isn`t HE the one with a mewling infant; a morbidly exhausted wife AND a demanding new forensic science part time Masters course at Bart`s, running alongside it all? Not for him the cool, calm serenity of the subterranean laboratory, with the soothing hum of the autoclave and the torpid “woosh-woosh” of the rhythmic centrifuge.

And the sweet, understated serenity of a small, softly-spoken pathologist.

Molly has recently returned from a “very prestigious” (Mike Stamford) lecture tour of Holland, Germany and Sweden; presenting her ground-breaking paper – “Afterlife: modulating the initial steps of human pluripotent stem cells”. Unheard of before Sherlock’s Reichenbach fall – her courage has focused her career path in a way John would never have imagined. Away, touring for months…the workload huge, but sanity had been saved and a reputation for greater things lay ahead.

John day-dreamed his well-trodden route, via Northumberland Street and cutting the corner by the junction.

Greater things? Onwards… and maybe upwards? He hopes she won`t be leaving again too soon. He and Mary have missed her.

Then Sherlock returns and she is back. For now.

Passed Speedy`s. Terrible stifle. Chip pan rebelling against three month old fat again. Some things never change. Quite the comfort really.

Up the stoop and…should he knock? He has his key…but…but. John raises his hand to knock, simultaneous to a wild-eyed and slightly manic consulting detective flinging open the (now embarrassingly famous) black door.

“Four minutes late…I need you, John!”

“Well, good morning to you too, Sherlock. I came as…”

Haughtily halting hand gesture. Stopping. Staring intently.

Uh-oh.

“Hmm…two-day old shirt…”

“Sherlock..."

“Only two or three hours sleep last night, resulting in…mmm….falling asleep in the taxi…”

“For God`s sake!”

“Drool. Left corner of your mouth. Overwork … fatigue… resulting in… Oh dear…”

“You had better just…”

“Poor Sholto – forgotten to buy the nappies Mary explicitly requested before you left…”

“Oh crap - ”

“Hmmm.” Raised eyebrows. “ – gets worse too. Also forgotten it was Mary`s birthday…yesterday? No. Today!” Triumphant. Disgracefully so.

Superhuman effort and nostalgic affection do actually allow John Watson to enter 221B Baker Street without punching his ex-flatmate. This time.

 

Chapter Three: Packing

 

Sherlock Holmes is a dreadful packer; particularly when his possessions haven`t actually been his possessions for over two years.

Rather than actually help, John Watson decides to watch in amusement. Bloody Science of Deduction.

“Mrs. HUDSON! Where are you now?”

“I`m right here, Dear, there really is no need to shou -”

“Mrs Hudson, I have DISTINCTLY and REPEATEDLY requested that you DO NOT dust my things!”

“The place is a health hazard Sherlock. We`ll soon need those special masks the Beijing folk wear.”

OutSTANDING eye roll.

Patient. “Mrs. Hudson, must I remind you that these objects are part of a long-term yet ESSENTIAL experiment, involving the settling of dust motes in relation to the passage of time. A man`s life could depend upon it.”

Arms folded across cardigan-ed bosom. Defensive - and almost belligerent.

“Some of the dust was…” finger and thumb held aloft, inches apart – “…THIS thick.”

A stone like expression. One raised eyebrow.

“That,” replies Sherlock Holmes, “would be October 2010.”

 

Less than three hours later, however, Sherlock has gone; badly packed Gladstone bag in hand. To Switzerland.

However often you encounter it, the name of Moriarty will always inspire a slight shiver in the spine of those in the know.

Reports of a sighting in Basel have resulted in exclusive usage of Mycroft`s Lear jet and an empty Baker Street.

Due to the nature and importance of some of the cultures currently multiplying in Skylab`s glittering habitat, Molly Hooper has volunteered to stay over the week or so Sherlock will be searching for his nemesis. The pressures of researching the expected (“take your time, Molly, dear”) sequel to “After-life” are wearing her down a little. John has noticed.

Sitting, drinking coffee at the granite bench. Soothing hum. Tired-looking Molly. John stifles a yawn. She laughs.

“What a pair we are. It`ll be the baby, I imagine.”

“Actually, no, it`s bloody Sherlock. He sucks all the energy from the room, like a sodding whirlwind. We`re left drained!”

Molly laughs into her cup.

“Empty husks.”

“Withered gourds.”

“Hollowed shells.”

Weak, exhausted laughter.

Molly: “You know what he said? Before you arrived?”

“Tell me.”

“`Molly…`” Quite a realistic take on his deep, baritone. Funny. “`Molly, I`m off to Switzerland to hunt down Moriarty. I may also take in the scenery as I hear the waterfalls are enchanting.`”

“Nice.”

“I know!”

Companionable silence. A pause.   Autoclave hum.

“Still love him then?”

“Yup. You?”

“Uh-huh.” 

Chapter Four: The Dog

 

As could be easily imagined, excessive use of social media, texting or emailing is usually frowned upon if one is tailing an international super villain. Hence, very little chit-chat has come John`s way as to Sherlock`s progress regarding “the Napoleon of Crime”. Thus, surprised was he, when Thursday brought a text. Cryptically to the point.

“Tiger of San Pedro active. Check Baker Street. Cultures. Mrs. Hudson. And Molly. SH”

Slightly elevated heartbeat; enlarged pupils; slight breathlessness. John Watson is either in the early stages of tachycardia or he is…excited?

Loving his son and wife has blasted his beleaguered army doctor`s heart wide open, but John will always know it was Sherlock Holmes and the miasma of danger and excitement around him that has brought that army doctor back to l

Just as a spade would always be called a spade; the game, to John, would always be ‘on’... And he missed it

Text:

“You mean, that crazy internet dictator? Don Murillo? Incited a few uprisings from his sitting room in Wisteria Lane, Surrey? More shameful sham than Che Guevara? John.”

Immediately:

“Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Escaped parole. Baker Street. Check. Soon. SH.”

Imagine, thought John Watson, pulling off his lab coat and pulling on his outdoor coat; if Sherlock Holmes ever decided to employ a little charm – he could rule the world.

 

 ***   *   *   ***  

Key in the lock this time. In addition, a revolver in the pocket. Nothing more dangerous than an angry “Tiger”. When Sherlock had exposed Don Murillo, safely ensconced in his English suburban hidey hole whilst his followers risked life and limb to overthrow a nation in his name; the case had caused an up…roar. Pundits and commentators were generally unable to decide whether it was his blood-curdling torture edicts via YouTube or his lurid flock wallpaper and appalling pottery ornaments that were most offensive. Exposure was his destruction and his shame was cataclysmic. Less “Tiger”, more “dung beetle” these days; and if dung beetles can swear vengeance, Don Murillo had proved himself top of the …heap.

Naturally, Sherlock lost no sleep over an ex-tiger. Until now, it would seem.

John closes the door silently as a ninja, feeling the comfortable weight of the revolver against him. Listening.  Breathing.   Observing.

Nothing to report.

Coat rack undisturbed. Sherlock has acquired a pale pink umbrella with a cherry pattern, but that could well be Molly`s. Hopefully.

Stair carpet unruffled. Newspapers on hallstand all neatly stacked. No signs of shredding by tiger or any other visible damage. A LOVEFilm dvd envelope…? Intriguing…then again, there is a fine line between investigating and actual SNOOPING…John steps away and mounts the stairs to 221B; ensuring no creaking or stomping as he goes.

As Mrs. Hudson has impressed upon them both from the get-go, she was NOT their housekeeper. Only the landlady. Obviously then, Sherlock has employed a cleaner. That is the only explanation for the sight that meets his eyes. Far from a wildcat induced frenzy, the room has an almost tranquil air, and is the tidiest John has ever seen it. 

Dust mote experiments aside, surfaces are…polished; papers stacked; cushions PLUMPED? No way.

Persian slipper full of fags? Gone! Newspaper cuttings? Presumably filed away. Nothing in plain sight.

“Amazing.”

Since the advent of Skylab, the kitchen has improved marginally, but now… Dr. Watson has moved out, but Mr. Muscle is IN the building, and he was here to stay. 

“Shiny.”

John shakes his head and shrugs. Has Sherlock realised the benefits of not spending hours looking for a pen under piles of…crap? Clearly he has, since a neat pen holder now stands proudly on the (immaculate) desk. Are there POST-IT notes next to the mouse pad...? NO! No snooping. Here to do a job.

The place was as quiet as the grave.

Clearly no sniff of an intruder, feline or otherwise, so John feels he can…

Wait…

His heart skips a beat.

Was that…?

A sound.  Distinct sound. Coming from … upstairs? 221A? The empty flat.

John flinches. There it is again… a tiny sound…a whimper? A tiny whimpering sound.  From an empty flat.

He fingers the revolver once more and turns abruptly towards the door. Finding himself face to face with –

Mrs. Hudson.

 

Clink of cup on saucer.

“Oh, NO, dear…it`s quite empty. Years I’ve tried to let that flat, but the damp…just too much to put right…”

“I swear, Mrs Hudson, I heard something. A – kind of whimpering noise…like someone or something was upset. Trapped, perhaps…”

“No, no…I would KNOW, John. With Sherlock being away, I am very careful. He does know a LOT of strange people, you know.”

Really?

“Would you like me to go up and ch - ”

Rapid head shake.

“I wouldn’t hear of it. Now, you need to get back to that dear baby and lovely Mary. You are looking a bit peaky dear. Maybe an early night.”

John decides to let it go.

“That baby,” another stifled yawn, “has no concept of night or day; just full or empty.”

And he leaves.

As John is walking the short distance from the tube to his front door, less than 15 minutes later, he gets a text.

“Chihuahua. Don’t tell Mrs. Hudson.

 

**Chapter Five: Sold a Pup **

 

Molly Hooper laughs her nervous, tinkly laugh. Somehow it heightens her fragility.

“I KNOW! What can he be thinking? He found it, apparently.”

“Where? In Paris Hilton`s handbag?”

More laughter. Large lashed brown eyes cast down. The way they always do when she talks of Sherlock. Hugging the thoughts to herself, which are, ironically, there for everyone to see.

“A murder scene, I heard. Greg… Inspector Lestrade found him tied to a lamp post next to that ginger –haired chap I had on my slab last week…”

“Ah, the Red-headed League Murder.”

“The R-r-oh, yes! I love your colourful case names John.”

He puffs up a bit. Proud. Smiles.

“Sherlock hates them. Thinks I `sensationalise` the pure science of his deductive reasoning. Them, and the deerstalker.”

Amazingly, she mimics Sherlock again.

“`That questionable headgear that the public now EXPECT me to wear...!`”

John snorts with laughter.

“You`ve got him. Down to a tee…”

“Yes. I have.” Blushing. Uh-oh. Hot topic. Maybe he should drop it.

“The bloody dog…” Safer ground. “What does he intend to do with it? It could starve up there…”

“Oh no, John. I feed it now I`m at Baker Street…it…it`s fine. I`m going to find a home for it soon. Very soon…”

Kind, gentle Molly. John feels she has more to do with the temporary adoption than Sherlock. He also suspects the `home` she finds may well be her own.

Molly puts her coffee cup down and stands, picking up her HUGE handbag as she does.

“It`s not in THERE is it, Molly?” glances at the coral tote. She looks down and blushes again. “It`s NOT…?”

“No, no, of course not! I`ve been to Barts – no dogs allowed.” Clutches bag to her body. “Lovely to have coffee. Bring Mary next time…and Sholto. I love his gorgeous cheeks!”

As she leaves, in a waft of cherry cardigan and silky, floppy ponytail, John sits to finish his coffee. And vows to drop in on Molly in 221B again. Soon. He needs to see that dog.

** Chapter Six: Mysterious Incident **

****

“As I was going up the stair,

I heard a dog who wasn`t there.

He wasn’t there again today,

Oh how I wish he`d go away…”

God, now he was talking – no, reciting – to himself! John turns his collar up against the wind as he turns the corner into Baker Street. Time to meet and greet – with Chico the Chihuahua.

He hasn`t felt quite at ease with the curious incidents of the previous few days. Calling at 221B had been nerve-jinglingly fraught, due to the possible run-in with Murillo, but since then, John has been at odds with himself.

Discussing, the previous evening, with Mary, after a bath time which had rendered their once calm and relaxing flat into a post-tsunami’d war-zone.

Mary, crawling under a table to rescue (another) soaking wet towel: “Is it too late to send him back. Tell them we`ve changed our minds?”

John, unwrapping wads of saturated toilet roll from around his (ruined) loafers: “Yes, we`ve decided to exchange our baby for a black mamba/Tasmanian devil hybrid…ok with you, nurse?”

Mary sits down, suddenly, narrowly missing the business end of Dilly the Dinky Dinosaur.

“Seriously, John…we are both educated, sensible people. We used to be well-organised and resourceful…”

“You, in particular…”

Sarcasm face.

“But now, look at us – beaten by a 6 month old! Our lovely home is trashed…”

“As is the car interior…”

“I have nothing that doesn’t smell of sour milk and feels…crusty…”

“Our friends have deserted us.”

“As we have, them.”

“We barely have the time or energy to even cook pasta; the only literature I have read in recent memory has been `The Hungry Caterpillar.`

“Yep. And we all know how THAT ends.” John picks up a toy from the floor. His fiftieth, it seems.

“And, I must mention, when even Sherlock Holmes has a `crib` that resembles a Homes & Gardens feature, you know you`ve got to start getting it together…”

“John, did you just say `crib`?”

“Making a point here – it WAS super tidy…” Thoughtful, now. “I didn`t recognise the place. And Mrs. Hudson, as well as affecting a temporary deafness, didn’t feel obliged to point it out. Only days ago, she`d been complaining about the dust…”

“`Dust mote experiment`!”

“Don`t.”

“Sorry, P-Diddy.” Picking up her bundle of joy and lifting him onto her shoulder. “Maybe Sherlock has turned a corner. Maybe he`s trying to impress…someone.

John guffaws as he squeezes out one of his socks into the sink.

“Sherlock? Are we talking about the same self-assured megalomaniac? No way. Something IS off with him though.   More than usual. More than before he died, even. And I STILL haven`t seen that sodding dog!”

Mary carries Sholto on her shoulder, ruffling her husband`s tawny head as she goes.

“Bless you.” Smiling.

At that moment, John Watson feels about the same age as his son.

 

*** * * ***

Thus, John ruminates as he battles the blustery day (much in the style of Winnie the Pooh, he feels). Empty chip papers gust across the pavement and a few sad looking inner city London leaves gather in gutters.

Then he sees them. A sight he thought his eyeballs could never have encountered in this lifetime. On this earth.  In this universe.   And he smiles a little smile.

A slightly less dapper; more wind-blown and far more disgruntled than usual Mycroft Holmes is descending the well-worn stoop of 221B Baker Street – in possession of a tiny, chic, precious Chihuahua - under his arm.

John blesses all the gods in the heavens of YouTube and mobile downloads that he has, in his pocket, a camera phone.

“Mycroft! Hello. This a new government initiative to support busy dog owners?”

Mycroft places the tiny dog gingerly on the pavement next to his feet. He looks disgruntled, indeed, yet strangely resigned to being caught in possession of a lady`s handbag dog.

“Ah, John. How delightful. Very droll. Needs must, I`m afraid. Miss Hooper not being – available, I am stepping into the…breech. Sherlock, I suppose, is putting himself out CONSIDERABLY for Queen and country…filial obligation and the ties that bind, you see.”

John bids farewell and is not too touched by the unusual display of brotherly support to forget to take a picture.

Within minutes of pressing “SEND”, he hears the familiar beep.

“Thank you John. There ARE no emoticons worthy enough.   SH”

And he sniggers on and off all the way home.

** Chapter Seven: The Return of Sherlock Holmes **

“The trail ran cold at Lausanne. Ironic, since it is the smallest city in the world to have a rapid transit rail system. Twenty eight stations but no sign of a consulting criminal. But, I have people… everywhere. A matter of time, John. Toblerone?”

Sherlock lays flat across the leather sofa; his bare feet dangling over the armrest; hair crested into dark tufts where his hands have raked it; cheekbones a little nearer to the surface than before he`d left.

“Thought that Toblerone was for Mrs. Hudson. Or maybe you want to save some for your DOG?”

“Chocolate contains an alkaloid called “theobromine”.  Theobromine is in the same family as caffeine and is a type of stimulant (they both are mythylxanines).  Theobromine stimulates the central nervous system, cardiovascular system, and causes a slightly increased blood pressure. In relatively small quantities, it can be fatal for dogs.”

“Missed playing in Skylab then?”

In a sudden swish of blue silk dressing gown, Sherlock Holmes is up on his feet and off down the stairs to his new toy.

John thinks he hears him mutter: “Like you wouldn`t believe.”

 ***** *** * ***

Luckily for a racing engine-like mind such as Sherlock`s, Lestrade has a case for his perusal within eight hours of his return. Work of his own to complete at Bart`s means John can`t join him until an hour into the investigation.

Beneath a particularly rank railway bridge near Marston Vale, Sherlock Holmes crouches low, scraping small samples of dust into plastic evidence bags. It is dark, cold and stinks of old industry and neglect.

“The generic name “Fletton” is given to bricks made from lower Oxford Clay giving them a low fuel cost due to the carbonaceous content of the clay…”

John hunkers down next to his friend.

“Having fun? Too much fresh air and edelweiss made you hanker for the filthy underbelly of old London town?”

Micro-smile, then back to business.

“If you had read my blog entry about the one hundred and thirty two different types of brick dust, complete with chemical analysis - ”

John, shaking his head. “Probably NOT going to happen - ”

“ – then you would know that, as on those property programs Mrs. Hudson is obsessed by, it is all about location, location, location. A man`s work boots can be as reliable as his fingerprints as to pin-pointing his alibi.”

A shout from an impatient and clearly fed-up looking Donovan.

“Hey, Freak! Is this going to take all night, because - ”

Ignoring her UTTERLY, Sherlock turns his attentions back to the dust samples. Light is poor and he fishes in the voluminous pocket of his blue great coat for a magnifying lens.

And pulls out a rubber duck.

Staring at it for a nanosecond, Sherlock Holmes thrusts the inexplicable object back from whence it came.

“What was…?”

Dark head looking down into the cold earth for clues.

“Chew toy.”

* * * * 

What seems like HOURS later sees John Watson trying to warm his freezing hands on a cup of questionable coffee at Scotland Yard. Sherlock has made six suggestions as to the names, locations and motives of the suspect in the case to Lestrade and they are now discussing a potential sighting of Jim Moriarty, appropriately enough, near Death Valley in California.

“Alongside all the other rattlesnakes.” Comments the Detective Inspector.

Mindful of Mary and his nocturnal son, John flips across his phone to check in. Detective Donovan peers over his shoulder, revealing a surprisingly sentimental side.

“Lovely lad, John.” Seeing his screensaver of Sholto. “He`s the double of you…”

John smiles. Indeed he is. Poor bugger.

She continues, barely concealed sneer in her voice:

“Freak must be getting soft. Got a picture of your lad on his phone too. Couldn`t believe it when I clocked it. Maybe there`s hope for him after all…”

John Watson looks across at his friend. His colleague. Erstwhile flat-mate. Possibly the greatest man he`d ever known. Long hands, gesticulating his point to Lestrade; grey eyes sparking with energy. Known him for five years. Don`t really know him at all.

 

** Chapter Eight: The Lion`s Drain **

Days turn into weeks and before he knows it, John is christening his son and celebrating the miracle of how his life has changed with friends and…unfortunately perhaps…family. Watson siblings, however, have pulled themselves together long enough to be friendly, quite approachable, and, most importantly, upright.

“Just a wee double vodka to steady the nerves,” whispers sister Harriet (Harry), conspiratorially to John at the party.

“Single.” Says Sherlock, who has been in charge of the bar.

Incredibly, Sherlock has offered to host the shindig and waived away any proffered thanks from the Watsons.

“Least I can do after utterly RUINING your engagement…”

“And the wedding.” Mary smiles sweetly at Sherlock. They don`t usually like to show how much they adore each other.

Lestrade is manfully handling Sholto; cock-a-hoop after apprehending the Brick Dust Murderer (at the first venue Sherlock had suggested) and being recommended for a Metropolitan Merit Award by the Commissioner.

Mrs. Hudson and Molly are circulating the small gathering with trays of cake and canapés; even Mycroft has sent a fruit basket.

THIS, thinks John Watson, is my family. How very strange, but how very... nice. He can`t resist a sentimental smile. It`s ok. It really is.

*** * * ***

By 4pm, Harry isn’t slurring and Sherlock, more miraculously, has been rude or patronising to NO-ONE.

Always a fly in the ointment though.

“Out of milk.” Whispers Mary, carrying her son, after wrestling him from Lestrade. “And Mummy needs a cup of tea – before Tasmanian Devil here decides he`s reached critical mass and kicks off.”

After checking Mrs. Hudson`s fridge, John has a brainwave and descends the stairs to 221C. They MUST drink the occasional cup of coffee in between all the dispersion homogenizers and incubators.

A flickering fluorescent light crackles into life along the low, curving brick ceiling, illuminating the gleaming brushed steel and smear-free glass. Mr. Muscle has a new place to live, it seems.

John easily finds the wall to ceiling refrigerator, but it is, typically of Sherlock, devoid of any signs of human domesticity. Designed only for the purest of chemical endeavours.

Glancing over his shoulder, he almost admits defeat and is feeling in his pocket for change when he spies a small, SMEG fridge in the corner, under a workbench. A-ha.

John`s eyes widen. The only occupants of the Skylab fridge are a half-eaten bar of Toblerone and six identical plastic screw topped containers of milk. And it doesn’t look like it came from Tesco.

 

* * * *

“Lion milk.”

“Lion milk. Well, of course. Why didn`t I – “

Sherlock Holmes sweeps his sheet music from the couch and replaces it on its stand.

“I didn’t want it getting muddled with Mrs. Hudson`s gold top. It is EXTREMELY rare and valuable. I had to break up a Sengelese poaching and smuggling group. They deal in Lion milk. Very difficult to obtain, as could be imagined, from Western and Central African Lions. It is highly valued for its imagined powers of courage, bravery and sexual prowess.”

“Are you – SERIOUS?” And it`s in YOUR fridge?

“Of course. Western and central African lions are highly genetically distinct from their eastern and southern African counterparts - in fact analyses have shown that these particular lions are more closely related to the remaining lions in India. Their alarming decline has not received the highly dedicated corrective conservation attention needed from any major conservation agency. These lions could be extinct within the next five years, especially as they currently exist in small and highly isolated populations. Lions are thought to survive in just five West African countries, Benin, Guinea, Mali, Nigeria and Senegal. This milk is the evidence needed to stop this practise. I certainly wouldn’t trust it to the Scotland Yard evidence floor. SO easy to break into. The case also had many interesting intellectual aspects which appealed to me. Tea?”

Which, John reflected, was a typically Sherlock Holmes-type method of saying: “Don`t ask me anything else. Subject is closed.”

 

** Chapter Nine: A Chemical Defect **

 

A few days later, John drops into Baker Street with a bottle of peach schnapps for Sherlock (weird, but only relatively so); a Peace Lily for Mrs. Hudson and a bunch of pale green roses for Molly (her favourite). To say thank you.

Knocking without result on the black door leads John into using his old key and making his way down the stairs. It is almost impossible to hear the door from the recesses of the lab.

Sherlock and Molly sit opposite each other, methodically checking jelly cultures in, perhaps, twenty petri dishes. They don`t appear to hear him, so he stands and watches the synchronicity of their movements.

“Sample 219?

“Nope.” Passes dish to sink.

“Sample 220?”

“Nope.” To sink again.

“Sample 221…B?”

“N…are you joking with me, Molly? Joking with SCIENCE?”

Sherlock Holmes looks up at her. And smiles. With his mouth. And with his pale, grey eyes. Oh goodness.

John feels something constrict around his intercostals and suddenly has the need to cough.

“Door was…no-one could hear…I have a … plant.”

Molly flushes (of course) like she has been caught licking Sherlock`s face, or some such thing. Sherlock casually looks across at his second flat-mate, then back at his first.

“John. How nice. And some miniature cabbages too.” Looking back at the petri dish that must be number 222.

“Ah, Molly Hooper…here we have it…every agar tells a story.”

Molly: “Good or bad?”

“Well, good, of course – I`ve solved the case.”

“I meant for the client.”

“Oh.” Pause. “Then, not so much.”

 

** Chapter Ten: Tiger Mom **

Another month had seen Sholto`s sleep patterns settle into a more humane rhythm, which enabled Dr. John Watson to embrace his research project at Bart`s with renewed vigour.

Truth be told, he is thoroughly enjoying the more cerebral side of medicine, since the day to day nitty-gritty of haemorrhoids and hernias at the surgery had perhaps begun to lose their ALLURE.

Molly Hooper often has coffee with him on Tuesdays and Thursdays, since she is researching her own paper (slowly, she usually grumbles) in the adjoining lab. Mary will occasionally swing by when Sholto is at nursery; and, shamefully, CHUCKLING can often be heard amongst the peaceful sleep of the dearly departed.

Since THAT night in Skylab, John has not spoken to Sherlock about Molly, but his previously amorphous thoughts were swirling and solidifying into something tangible, yet still SO intangible…like a scarcely remembered dream that has been so vivid moments before.

Events since Sherlock`s return from the dead have felt like the slow, inexorable crawl of a glacier; moving with infinite sloth, towards its final goal…Something is changing. Something has already changed.

“Sherlock. He – he`s not the same person anymore is he?”

Mary glances up, startled by such a massive non sequiteur, particularly in the midst of `IceRoad Truckers`.

“Is something bothering you, John? Tell me.”

Looking at her beautiful, speedwell blue eyes, trying to read the message in his own. Her awesomeness would always amaze his heart.

Trying again (since her husband seemed newly mute): “You mean since he died and rose again? Maybe the Messiah Complex has mellowed him?”

John shifted in his chair, thinking.

“He always says that I look, but do not see…smart arse, yes, but still – he IS right. Over the last few months, there have been a thousand little clues, hanging out to dry, but somehow, I haven’t flagged them and have bumbled on, regardless…”

“You don`t `bumble`, sweetie.”

“He has that `look` so much at the moment…the one that says, `we both know, so let`s just get on…` But that`s just it – I DON`T know…I can`t put my finger on it. I can`t see the wood for the clues.”

Mary Watson (nee Morstan) stands and snuggles into the chair beside her husband, resting her blonde head on his shoulder.

“Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, MUST be the truth.”

John turns and looks at his wife, who`s past he will never truly know.

“Go and talk to him,” is all she says.

* * * * 

The first punch cracks John`s jaw so hard, he grinds his teeth, seeing stars.

The coffee table upturns as he crashes back, staggering blindly – falling.

All around – chaos…

Scattered books; papers; clothes – the laptop wrestled from its moorings and upturned amongst the debris. Through the fog of his daze, John wonders if the hard drive will have survived the…fall.

Crashing sounds still reverberate around 221B.

Crockery? Glasses? The kitchen is being pulverised by two adult males thundering around it, fighting with their fists – red in tooth and claw. He must get up. He must help his friend…

“Sherlock!!!”

Superhuman effort gets John to his feet. Nausea envelopes him like the swell of an ugly tide. Little starbursts explode around his head – he half expects to see tiny tweety birds, in the style of Tom and Jerry cartoon fun.

But THIS isn’t fun.

He grabs onto a firm surface…the leather couch. More crashing guides him towards the kitchen where he knows Sherlock Holmes will be facing yet another man who wants him dead. Don Murillo has more reason than most to hate his ex-flatmate, and he has the latin temperament which could make a man fight to the death.

Problem is, Sherlock has died once already, and John was not going to let that happen again. Not on HIS watch.

Vision clearing, the ex-army doctor sees a Tiger across the expanse of tile and marble.

Murillo is holding down Sherlock by the throat. His arms are vast and knotted – clearly not a stranger to the prison gym – and his crazed black eyes show nothing but a desire to annihilate the man who`s windpipe he is crushing.

“I told you Sherlock Holmes, you would pay for your crimes against me…against my people. They are lost – they have no-one to take them to overthrow our enemy. They are CHILDREN without me…”

In spite of an increasing threat of asphyxiation, Sherlock`s eyes turn wildly towards his friend and John can see, in a fleeting glance, the desperation therein. And something clicks into place.

With a roar – blood rushing in his ears – John Watson hurls himself at the steroid-enhanced Tiger of San Pedro…anything to loosen that deadly grip.

Murillo is slightly thrown off balance by the Doctor`s blind tackle, but his grip re-tightens on Sherlock`s throat.

Sherlock is scrabbling desperately at Murillo`s arms – the size of small elm trees – his lips turning blue.

Then it happens. The Tiger makes an almost predictable, fatal error: he starts gloating.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, the life leaves your eyes and I watch your fear…your fear of what you lose. I celebrate my years in prison because I could come back to you JUST when I find you have so much MORE to lose…I see your fear and I feed on it…I BATHE in in it… I DRINK it - ”

And Don Murillo, the Tiger of San Pedro suddenly screams, a high-pitched (and rather feminine) scream for such a macho hombre; lets go of Sherlock`s throat and clutches his own, before crashing to the ground, amongst the broken glass and smashed earthenware.

And as three men lie semi-conscious amongst the debris of 221B Baker Street; Molly Hooper stands by the light of the sitting room window; her hair tousled and face scarlet in the fading evening light. She pants quietly, feet planted firmly on the ground to steady herself, as she carries in one hand an intricate South American blow – pipe, and in the other…

A baby.

 

** Chapter Eleven: Revelation **

**“** Tiger Mom.”

John puts his cup down, rather shakily, on the saucer.

“Tiger- what – now?”

Lestrade looks slightly embarrassed. Like he has been caught reading a woman`s magazine in the Doctor`s Surgery.

“Er…me and the wife – we saw a programme – a documentary about them. Do anything for their kids…want them to do the very best in school; in life. Do anything to protect them. Molly – she`s obviously a tiger mom.”

Was it the concussion, John wonders, making his head buzz and his thoughts cascade like cherries in a slot machine? Organise. You have had a blunt force trauma to the head, but time to get it together.

  1. They weren’t dead – always a bonus when aiding Sherlock Holmes in his cases

  2. Molly has saved them by using Murillo`s own weapon, brought to exact patriotic revenge on Sherlock (but, hey, hands and fists work pretty well too) and temporarily paralysed the ex-dictator with an alkaloid venom John really should include in his Masters study

  3. Molly lives – now permanently – in Flat 221A, Baker Street (despite Mrs. Hudson`s protestations of its damp-laden emptiness) and has done for quite some time

  4. Molly has a baby. Her baby. Touring Europe with her paper had included a visit to the maternity hospital and and resulted in a bouncing baby…boy.




These are the facts, so far, as John Watson, concussion and all, knows them.

But there is so much more.

Mrs. Hudson bustles in with biscuits for Lestrade`s tea and hot honey and lemon for Sherlock`s throat. Refusing to go to hospital, he sits, barefoot and clasping his knees. He can speak only in a hoarse whisper.

“Lestrade – you have got to stop reading `Daily Mail Online` and start reviewing your prison parole policy.”

“Hey, Sherlock, that’s not really my juris-“

A raise of an eyebrow is all it takes to silence the Detective Inspector. For a moment.

“Sherlock, we can only apologise for all this – “ All glance around the shambles that was the sitting room. 

“Murillo won’t be doing any more damage for quite some time – Mrs. Hudson, stop fussing over the honey – I believe extradition could well be on the cards.”

Shuffling; crunching of bourbons. Embarrassed cough.

“Sherlock, John, everyone at the Yard is pretty upset..."

“Lestrade.” Croak. “I really should remind you that, if it hadn’t been for a five foot two, eight stone pathologist, John and I would probably be dead and my son would be fatherless – “

A crash of tea tray, lemon and honey.

“ – could somebody please help Mrs Hudson? And get me a bloody strepsil...?”

 

** Chapter 12: The Observation of Trifles **

Laying Sholto gently in his cot, Mary checks her phone and smiles. Putting it down, she turns on her son`s cot mobile. Tinkly music.

`You are my sunshine,

My only sunshine,

You make me happy,

When skies are grey…`

 

Mary then picks up her phone again and returns a text. Softly closing the bedroom door, she sits on the couch and prepares to await him.

Key fumbling; scrabbling in the front door. Then, slamming (two at a time?) up the stairs; door shoved open, bringing the cool night air into the cosy sitting room. Mary has picked up a magazine and starts to flick through i

She looks up to behold her husband.

John`s scarf and coat are awry – askew? Hair tussled; face flushed and the beginnings of a black eye appearing.

“Ice? Your eye…”

“Mary…” puffs and pants – less fit than pre-Reichenbach times – “you`ll never… you are NEVER going to…”

Then, John Watson`s face and body sag and the pent-up energy and adrenaline of the day and the ride home seeps out of him. He slumps suddenly into the nearest chair, spent.

“You bloody well KNOW, don`t you?”

A smile – a kind one – and a tiny nod.

“How – how long?”

Shrugs. “A while…not long really.”

John Watson stands quickly (his minor concussion making it instantly regrettable) and begins a slightly ridiculous pacing of the small room.

“Why am I always the last SODDING person to find out what is going on with that MAN?!”

Mary stands, places her hands on his shoulder and pushes him gently back into the armchair. She then slides onto her husband`s knee and looks him in the eye.

“No-one told me…I just observed…”

“Pfffft!”

“…and to be honest, it would`ve just taken one look at Molly, really…”

“I`m a doctor, and I didn’t …”

“No, not anything like that…”

He waited.

“She just…”

A secret smile.

“She just GLOWS.”

** INTERREGNUM **

Cleaners and flat dwellers have worked like demons to make 221B baby-friendly once more.

Crockery, glass and papers removed; tables and lamps up-righted; computers re-routed and re-encrypted.

Wine is on the table and a fire glows photogenically in the grate.

Sherlock Holmes lies across the couch, enveloped in his favourite blue silk dressing gown and his favourite pathologist.   It`s quite the picture and, truth be told, Sherlock would shout it from the rooftops, if he HAD a voice.

Molly Hooper pulls away his blue scarf and pokes, half pathologist/half lover, at his emergent bruising.

“Six hours post-trauma…looking very normal, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock turns to look directly at her.

“Hmmm…” he whispers. “Considering most of your injuries are observed post-mortem, I will suspend judgement on YOUR judgement of `normal`, Dr. Hooper.”

Dr. Hooper puts her small finger to his lips. “Don`t speak. Trauma.”

“Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly,” croaks Sherlock Holmes. “And I have to talk. Quietly, if I must."

Sherlock swings his legs from beneath Molly`s and stands. He walks over to the Moses basket in the corner of the room and stares down at its tiny occupant. Identical grey/blue eyes; clear as an Icelandic glacial stream, stare right back at him.

“Hello Benedict,” he smiles.

 

** Chapter Thirteen: The Facts of the Matter **

Finger tented; elbows on armrests; knees pulled up and feet bare. Sherlock Holmes is ready to relate.

The Facts.

“I COULD not tell you immediately, John, and for that, I must ask you to forgive me…”

“Again.”

“I mean, after you pretended to be dead for two years, came back and then asked me to forgive you. You NOW are telling me that you are the FATHER to a baby boy, and have been for FIVE MONTHS and … STILL asking me to forgive you…”

“Molly said you might be slightly cross.”

“Slightly – Sherlock – WHY? Why couldn’t you tell your best friend?”

“Moriarty.”

John feels pulled up short and his self-righteous hurt speech is cut in its tracks.

“He still wants to take everything from me…strip me until I have nothing and then destroy me. He nearly destroyed you. Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson. Can you imagine if he knew I had a son? I had to be sure measures were in place, John.”

John Watson mentally shakes himself as the wind is completely removed from any sails he may still have had. His friend. His autistically inclined sociopath of a reasoning machine; the automaton; the thinker; the savant; the VIRGIN! – was a father, who cared about protecting his child, at all costs.

“Molly had to live here so that I could protect her; and Ben. So many of Moriarty`s agents are watching my every move, just as we are watching his. Don Murillo was an additional complication I hadn’t accounted for, so I enlisted your help.”

“The curious incident of the dog in the quiet time.”

“…there was no dog.”

“THAT was the curious incident.”

John had already surmised that Chico had been used as an excuse for the whimpering of a small baby. There was still one thing.

“But, there WAS a dog…I SAW it. With Mycroft…”

Sherlock Holmes smiles at the memory.

“Ah, yes.” Smirking.  “That was because the dog does, in fact, BELONG to Mycroft.”

And John Watson is rendered temporarily speechless.

 

* * * * 

Mrs. Hudson`s fingers are pleating her apron as she sits at the tiny dinette in the her kitchen. She has the look of a woman who`s universe has been slightly up-ended for no good reason and is still trying to make sense of it.

“First you – marrying Mary – just like that… I love Mary, John, you know I do…”

John Watson pats her shoulder and passes over her glass of sherry. Prescribed by him.

“Then…THIS…” Sigh. “Sherlock says Molly needs to stay here with Benedict. I KNOW the kind of trouble that follows that man around, believe me, so I naturally wanted to help.” Tiny sip.

“I suppose he didn’t exactly LIE to me, but I just ASSUME that poor Molly had been…knocked up…” sip. “…and DUMPED by some dreadful boyfriend. I was happy for her to stay in 221A, especially since Sherlock had all the damp-proofing and alterations done…”

So, Charles Augustus Magnussen`s clients had been more generous with their funding of Baker Street`s home improvements than John had first realised. Mrs. Hudson has the grace to be slightly embarrassed.

“I KNOW I told you a big fib John, and I HATE lying to you, of all people; but I didn’t want Molly to have the SHAME; her being a Doctor and so forth. Unmarried, you see…and her so bright and everything. It wouldn’t be decent.”

And being in love with Sherlock Holmes, thinks John Watson, can negate a B Sc., M.D. and PhD. in a mere moment.

He considers pouring HIMSELF a sherry.

“And, not once, did you imagine…? What am I saying – who would imagine – the TRUTH?”

Mrs. Hudson sniffs into her glass.

“I thought you two boys wouldn’t be giving me any…`trouble`…Two nice boys, I thought to myself. Straight-forward. No lady friends calling all hours of the night; no hysterics; just pipe and slippers…”

John sighed; running his hands through his hair for the millionth time.

“Mrs. Hudson, for the MILLIONTH time; Sherlock and I are not, nor ever have been, a COUPLE! I am one hundred percent heterosexual, and clearly, from recently acquired evidence, so is he. We have met women; we have grown `close` to these women and, God help me, had CHILDREN with these women.”

Incredible though it was, these were the facts. Astonishing. Shaking his head, as if to make the idea take a grappling hook hold.

 

** Chapter Fourteen: Evidence  **

In the first … the dog…

In the second …the lab assistant (Dr. Molly Hooper) …

In the third…the VERY tidy flat…

In the fourth…the giant handbag ( hiding baby weight)…

In the fifth…the rubber duck (duh!)…

In the sixth…the phone picture of … (not Sholto) Benedict Holmes…

In the seventh …the `tiger` milk… (For God`s sake!)

And, the eighth… the eighth piece of evidence in the case of the mysterious dog in the upstairs flat…lay in the mind – and heart – of Sherlock Holmes himself.

*** * * ***

The two ex-flatmates sit opposite each other in the sitting room of Baker Street. Much like old times, except there is a Moses basket in the corner and a Telly-tubby under the computer desk.

“YOU are a father.”

“SO are you.”

“Shit.”

And newfound maturity is forgotten in a moment as they snigger, then laugh, then crease up…eventually CRYING in near hysteria at the…situation.

“YOU… are a… VIRGIN!”

“Nope.”

“Jesus.”

John wipes away the tears of laughter and looks at his friend with new eyes and fullness in his heart. Feeling emotional here…

“John – don’t cry.”

“SO not – “

A moment passes. The mantelpiece clock ticks. Tocks. A small fire crackles in the grate since an autumnal chill has taken hold of London. An east wind has washed a cooling shroud over the Metropolis.

Sherlock speaks. His voice, though almost back to his normal, rich tone, still seems slightly hoarse; more imbued with emotion?

“John.”

“Sherlock.”

“You know I have always said that sentiment is a chemical defect, found in the losing side…”

“…that love is a dangerous disadvantage…a simple matter of chemistry that is both inherently simple, yet very destructive…”

“So speaks a highly-functioning sociopath.”

Sherlock Holmes has the grace to look down, then back up at his friend.

“Ahh…” Raking his hands through dark curls. “Not being eloquent at all …”

John leans forward and puts his hand on the sociopath`s shoulder.

“THIS is the most eloquent I have ever seen you. Take your time.”

Sherlock unfolds his long legs and stands. Then he sits again. Then stands.

“I have known, for a while, how Molly feels about me…her `crush`. Annoying. Flattering. Slightly distracting. Then, less so. Then…she killed me…and brought me back to life. Moriarty saw it first. He became her “boyfriend” to get closer to me. But, he made a serious mistake. He chose to target you; Mrs. Hudson; Lestrade, even…but he didn’t see Molly - thought she didn’t count …nor did I … but I do now.”

John Watson has gained composure, but his emotions are running very near to the surface. He swallows. Hard.

“Shit. You love her, don’t you?”

Sherlock Holmes gives a beautiful, fulsome and EMOTIVE smile which almost takes the breath away.

“Her loyalty, integrity, beauty, purity…DISARMS me… I WANT her to love me. I WANT to be better, for her.”

“I am a reasoning machine, John, make no mistake. Deduction and the pure scientific solving of a problem is the air I breathe… but – “ a heartbeat of time passes. “ Molly… she, and my son, are now the REASON I breathe it.”

 

** ADDENDUM **

So, John Watson Blogs:

         “Thus, `The Sign of the Paw` comes to its conclusion, and I must

           confess, dear reader, that I am unsure as to the long term

           prognosis of Sherlock Holmes`s quest for the apprehension of

           his nemesis, James Moriarty. The spider sits within his web

           and plucks a thousand silken strands which serve to control

            the criminal underworld that we are endeavouring to destroy.

           However, my friend, the world`s first (and only) Consulting

           Detective, continues to live alone in his Baker Street head-

           quarters; solving the problems which make the world a

           safer place for the rest of us. Success in this is its own

           reward; and, far from suffering the pangs of a lonely heart,

           Sherlock Holmes is probably one of the happiest men I

           know.”

 

And the best blogger a man could ever have logs off with a secret smile.

 

 

**THE END**


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